Instinctively I answered: “We discussed whether it would be possible to have the children’s festival this year.” And then straight out, in self-defence, I asked: “Your fiancé, he is Pogány’s chauffeur, isn’t he?”
She was taken aback by my sudden question and gave herself away:
“He carries Pogány sometimes, sometimes Böhm.”
That was just what I wanted to know.
March 13th.
Many people are stopping at the street corner, where a new poster is shrieking from the walls. It represents a giant workman bending over the Hungarian Parliament, at his feet a bucket of paint, and with a dripping brush he is painting the mighty mass of granite, which is our House of Parliament, red. Above the picture is the appeal ‘Vote for the Social Democratic party.’
The everlasting pile of stones, and—red paint.... That sums it up completely—even more than was intended.
The other day we stuck up our tiny poster. It was a map of Hungary: on a white field the green frontiers, and above, in red letters; ‘National Association of Hungarian Women.’ They are free to cover the walls with yard-long posters: ours was no bigger than a hand and took up little enough room, yet they could not tolerate it. I saw a little boy tearing them off.